Pell switched screens so she wouldn’t see what he was searching for and slipped his arm around her narrow waist.
Men and women exercise power over each other every day. Men have a harder time at first. They have to work their way inside a woman’s defenses, build subtle connections, find her likes and dislikes and fears, all of which she tries to keep hidden. It could take weeks or months to get the leash on. But once you had her, you were in charge for as long as you wanted.
Oh, we’re like, you know, soul mates….
A woman, on the other hand, had tits and a * and all she had to do was get them close to a man—and sometimes not even—and she could get him to do virtually anything. The woman’s problem came later. When the sex was over, her control dropped off the radar screen.
Jennie Marston had been in charge a few times since the escape, no question about it: in the front seat of
the T-bird, in bed with her trussed up by the stockings, and—more leisurely and much better—on the floor with some accessories that greatly appealed to Daniel Pell. (Jennie, of course, didn’t care for that particular brand of sex but her reluctant acquiescence was a lot more exciting than if she’d really been turned on.)
The spell she’d woven was now subdued, though. But a teacher never lets his student know he’s inattentive. Pell grinned and looked over her body as if he were sorely tempted. He sighed. “I wish I could, lovely. But you tired me out. Anyway, I need you to run an errand for me.”
“Me?”
“Yep. Now that they know I’m here, I need you to do it by yourself.” The news stories were reporting that he was probably still in the vicinity. He had to be much more careful.
“Oh, all right. But I’d rather fuck you.” A little pout. She was probably one of those women who thought the expression worked with men. It didn’t, and he’d teach her so at some point. But there were more important lessons to be learned at the moment.
He said, “Now, go cut your hair.”
“My hair.”
“Yeah. And dye it. The people at the restaurant saw you. I bought some brown dye for you. At the Mexican store.” He pulled a box out of the bag.
“Oh. I thought that was for you.”
She smiled awkwardly, gripping a dozen strands, fingers twining them.
Daniel Pell had no agenda with the haircut other than making it more difficult to recognize her. He understood, though, that there was something more, another issue. Jennie’s hair was like the precious pink blouse, and he was instantly intrigued. He remembered her sitting in the T-bird when he’d first seen her in the Whole Foods parking lot, proudly brushing away.
Ah, the information we give away…
She didn’t want to cut it. In fact, shereally didn’t want to. Long hair meant something to her. He supposed she’d let it grow at some point as protection from her vicious self-image. Some emblem of pathetic triumph over her flat chest and bumpy nose.
Jennie remained on the bed. After a moment she said, “Sweetheart, I mean, I’ll cut it, sure. Whatever you want.” Another pause. “Of course, I was thinking: Wouldn’t it be better if we left now? After what happened at the restaurant? I couldn’t stand it if anything happened to you…. Let’s just get another car and go to Anaheim! We’ll have a nice life. I promise. I’ll make you happy. I’ll support us. You can stay home until they forget about you.”
“That sounds wonderful, lovely. But we can’t leave yet.”
“Oh.”
She wanted an explanation. Pell said only, “Now go cut it.” He added in a whisper, “Cut it short. Real
short.”
He handed her scissors. Her hands trembled as she took them.
“Okay.” Jennie walked into the small bathroom, clicked on all the lights. From her training at the Hair Cuttery she used to work in, or because she was stalling, she spent some moments pinning the strands up before cutting them. She stared into the mirror, fondling the scissors uneasily. She closed the door partway.
Pell moved to a spot on the bed where he could see her clearly. Despite his protests earlier, he found his face growing flushed, and the bubble starting to build inside him.
Go ahead, lovely, do it!
Tears streaking down her cheeks, she lifted a clump of hair and began to cut. Breathing deeply, then cutting. She wiped her face, then cut again.
Pell was leaning forward, staring.
He tugged his pants down, then his underwear. He gripped himself hard, and every time a handful of blond hair cascaded to the floor, he stroked.
Jennie wasn’t proceeding very quickly. She was trying to get it right. And she had to pause often to catch her breath from the crying, and wipe the tears.
Pell was wholly focused on her.
His breathing came faster and faster. Cut it, lovely. Cut it!
Once or twice he came close to finishing but he managed to slow down just in time.
He was, after all, the king of control.
Monterey Bay Hospital is a beautiful place, located off a winding stretch of Highway 68—a multiple-personality route that piggybacks on expressways and commercial roads and even village streets, from Pacific Grove through Monterey and on to Salinas. The road is one of the main arteries of John Steinbeck country.
Kathryn Dance knew the hospital well. She’d delivered her son and daughter here. She’d held her father’s hand after the bypass surgery in the cardiac ward and she’d sat beside a fellow CBI agent as he struggled to survive three gunshot wounds in the chest.
She’d identified her husband’s body in the MBH morgue.
The facility was in the piney hills approaching Pacific Grove. The low, rambling buildings were landscaped with gardens, and a forest surrounded the grounds; patients might awaken from surgery to find, outside their windows, hummingbirds hovering or deer gazing at them in narrow-eyed curiosity.
The portion of the Critical Care Unit, where Juan Millar was presently being tended to, however, had no